the po~et 1

The ordinary is what was expected of him. The China pattern for his life picked out like that of a bride--predictable. Even his name wasn't anything he thought he could be proud of, Paul Shaffer. The Paul Shaffer's of the world were shuffled around and looked over. No reason to be chosen even for the worst of teams.

To him the sun looked the same everyday and even when the moon looked discreet, half covered with heaven's quilt, it still didn't phase him. His destiny, to have an epitaph that read "Paul Shaffer, laid to rest." Rest from what? He would ask himself. Not one single day marked an adventure. Not one held any significance tangible enough to hold in the attic packed away with the Christmas decor.

Unless you counted the words that he spoke unto paper. Parchment paper, handwritten, penned by him at night when he permitted himself not to follow the maze he had been trained for. Rather to go off course, be someone else, to smoke, to laugh out loud, to take off his glasses--to choose a new pattern.